I still remember how the figs smelled that morning—sweet, warm, and full of promise.
I was thirteen, and it was my first time walking beside my father to the Temple in Yerushalayim — the Hebrew name for Jerusalem. It was the season of Bikurim, the firstfruits, when those of us who worked the land brought our earliest crops to the kohanim — the priests — as a gift for Hashem, the name we use to speak of God with reverence.
You won’t find my name in the scrolls. I was just a boy in the hill country of Yehudah — Judea — and our fields were small, nothing like the vast orchards of the wealthy. But my father always said, “It’s not the size of the gift that matters. It’s what it means to your heart.”
He handed me a woven basket filled with grapes, barley, and our finest figs. “These are our firstfruits,” he said. “They belong to the Lord, who gave us the land.”
I wanted to ask why we couldn’t eat them. After all, we had worked hard to grow them. But then I looked around. Other families were there too. Some were rich, others poor, but they all carried offerings with care and pride.
When we reached the city gates, the sounds of singing and praise echoed through the streets. It was like nothing I’d ever heard. The men in front of us sang, “Blessed is the One who gave us this land!” and everyone around them shouted “Amen!”
At the Beit HaMikdash, the Holy Temple, Father leaned close and whispered, “Now you say the words.”
I blinked. “Me?”
He nodded. “From Devarim, just as Moshe said.” He meant Moshe — you may know him as Moses — who gave us the Torah.
My heart pounded. I stepped forward and began: “My father was a wandering Aramean…” The words told our history — how we went down to Egypt, became slaves, how the Lord saved us with a mighty hand and brought us here, into a land flowing with milk and honey.
As I spoke, I looked at the basket in my hands. I realized: We didn’t grow these things alone. Rain came from the skies. The sun warmed the earth. The seeds sprouted not just because we worked, but because Hashem allowed it all to live.
When I placed the basket before the altar, I felt something I didn’t expect — joy. Real joy. Not just happiness that the work was done, but a deep happiness that I could give something back to the One who had given me everything.
Later, as we walked away, I asked Father, “Why do we have to give the first? Why not the leftovers?”
He smiled and said, “When you give first, you show trust. You say, ‘I know there will be more, because the One who gave already, will give again.’”
I never forgot that.
And even now, as an old man teaching my own grandchildren, I tell them this: Tithes and firstfruits weren’t just gifts. They were our way of saying thank You — and remembering where every blessing truly begins.
I still remember how the figs smelled that morning—sweet, warm, and full of promise.
I was thirteen, and it was my first time walking beside my father to the Temple in Yerushalayim — the Hebrew name for Jerusalem. It was the season of Bikurim, the firstfruits, when those of us who worked the land brought our earliest crops to the kohanim — the priests — as a gift for Hashem, the name we use to speak of God with reverence.
You won’t find my name in the scrolls. I was just a boy in the hill country of Yehudah — Judea — and our fields were small, nothing like the vast orchards of the wealthy. But my father always said, “It’s not the size of the gift that matters. It’s what it means to your heart.”
He handed me a woven basket filled with grapes, barley, and our finest figs. “These are our firstfruits,” he said. “They belong to the Lord, who gave us the land.”
I wanted to ask why we couldn’t eat them. After all, we had worked hard to grow them. But then I looked around. Other families were there too. Some were rich, others poor, but they all carried offerings with care and pride.
When we reached the city gates, the sounds of singing and praise echoed through the streets. It was like nothing I’d ever heard. The men in front of us sang, “Blessed is the One who gave us this land!” and everyone around them shouted “Amen!”
At the Beit HaMikdash, the Holy Temple, Father leaned close and whispered, “Now you say the words.”
I blinked. “Me?”
He nodded. “From Devarim, just as Moshe said.” He meant Moshe — you may know him as Moses — who gave us the Torah.
My heart pounded. I stepped forward and began: “My father was a wandering Aramean…” The words told our history — how we went down to Egypt, became slaves, how the Lord saved us with a mighty hand and brought us here, into a land flowing with milk and honey.
As I spoke, I looked at the basket in my hands. I realized: We didn’t grow these things alone. Rain came from the skies. The sun warmed the earth. The seeds sprouted not just because we worked, but because Hashem allowed it all to live.
When I placed the basket before the altar, I felt something I didn’t expect — joy. Real joy. Not just happiness that the work was done, but a deep happiness that I could give something back to the One who had given me everything.
Later, as we walked away, I asked Father, “Why do we have to give the first? Why not the leftovers?”
He smiled and said, “When you give first, you show trust. You say, ‘I know there will be more, because the One who gave already, will give again.’”
I never forgot that.
And even now, as an old man teaching my own grandchildren, I tell them this: Tithes and firstfruits weren’t just gifts. They were our way of saying thank You — and remembering where every blessing truly begins.
